When The Spirit Moves You

by Thomas DePrima

  As Arlene closed the door, Vincent turned and walked to his car, where he stood by the driver's side door staring vacantly at the enormous entrance doors of the house. On one particular trip to the estate, when he was seven, he had contracted the German Measles, now known as Rubella, and been forced to stay in bed for more than a week with a rug tacked up over the window to protect his eyes from excessively bright light. During that time his Nanna had called him Spotty when she visited him in the semi-darkened bedroom to read to him. No one else had ever called him that, before, during, or since, and even Nanna had stopped when his measles cleared up. Until today.

  After staring at the house for perhaps another ten minutes, while going over everything he had seen and heard since his arrival, he got into his car and pointed it towards Boston. The young woman knew certain facts that no living person, other than himself, should know. And everything in her story about the family had been, to the best of his knowledge, completely accurate. Of course, since she did inherit the estate, as it was on the day Nanna passed away, she might have found Nanna's journals and gleaned her information from having read them. But, though he hadn't said anything to her, he had definitely noticed that her mannerisms were identical to those of his beloved great grandmother. The way she held her tea cup, the inflection in her voice, and the way that she sat, walked, and moved, were the same as he remembered of Nanna, even if her outward appearance was so radically different. There was no doubt that he would have plenty to occupy his mind on the trip home.

  ~ finis ~

  When The Spirit Calls

  (sneak peak)

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  A Message To My Readers

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  Thank you

  * * *

  Product Decription for:

  When The Spirit Moves You

  Some Amazon customers have requested that the product description on Amazon, and the rear cover or book jacket descriptions, be included with the kindle copy. I’m happy to provide them here:

  * * *

  Arlene Watson and her girlfriends intended to spend most of their summer vacation at the beach among friends, and naturally boys, before returning to high school for their senior year.

  But on one particularly hot and lazy afternoon in late June, Arlene consents to perform tarot readings for her closest friends. Her minor talent for 'fortune-telling' had seemed to mature dramatically since receiving an unusual hand-painted tarot deck as a gift from her sister. Since then, whenever she gathered socially with friends, someone would beg for a reading.

  Repeated attempts at finding answers in the cards on this occasion only produced more questions. In frustration, Arlene gives up. Hoping that contact with a real spirit from the 'great beyond' might help clarify ambiguous responses from the cards, she convinces the others to join her in an experimental séance at a deserted mansion where a ghost is reputed to roam the grounds each evening.

  Waiting until security patrols end for the day, the four young women sneak onto the estate and manage to enter the house. Their efforts at contact appear to fail, but as they prepare to leave, the spirit arrives and shows them how foolhardy they were to tamper with metaphysical forces beyond their ken.

  The spirit pursues them through the house, finally cornering them in a front vestibule. As it approaches, they collapse into unconsciousness.

  When they awaken, nothing is familiar; not even their reflections in a mirror. Everything is as real as anything they've ever known, yet they appear to have traveled more than a hundred years back through time. The body of an unmarried, desirable, and very eligible young woman has replaced the body each has known all her life.

  Trapped in a nightmare from which they can't escape, they are at first desperate to reestablish a link with the reality they know. But as romances with young men of the period blossom, they slowly realize that it might not be so terrible if they can't find a way home. Can four twenty-first century girls, used to speaking their minds freely and behaving independently, assimilate into a Victorian period where women don’t even possess the right to vote?

  It's said that love conquers all.

  * * *

  From the back cover of the print version:

  A young woman with emerging clairvoyant powers, unable to perform a successful tarot card reading for her three best friends, convinces them to join her in a séance at a deserted mansion where a ghost is reputed to roam the grounds each night. When the security patrol has left for the day, they sneak onto the estate and manage to enter the house.

  Their efforts at contact appear to fail, but as they prepare to leave, the spirit arrives and shows them how foolhardy they were to tamper with metaphysical forces beyond their ken.

  Caught up in a nightmare from which they can't escape, they are at first desperate to reestablish a link with the reality they know. But they slowly recognize that it might not be so terrible if they can't find a way home.

  * * *

  When The Spirit Calls

  Chapter One

  Her ragged gasps for breath were mingled with the sounds of pitiful sobbing that uncontrolled fear for one's safety produces. Terror had pushed her almost to the limits of endurance! Moonlight filtering through the overhead canopy of leaves cast dark shadows that artfully destroyed visual perception, while the sounds of pursuit reverberated off the trees of the forest to come at her again and again from every direction. The undergrowth clawed and slashed at her limbs. Low branches slapped viciously at her face. Blood oozed from dozens of painful scrapes and dripped copiously from deep cuts. Were she not so frightened, she would have understood that he was having as difficult a time as she, but the knowledge would have provided no comfort.

  Suddenly, she saw light ahead. Expectation that she might find someone to help her, buoyed her spirits and gave new energy. But upon bursting through the outer row of trees that embraced the dense patch of forest, she discovered the light to be just the soft glow of the quarter moon's reflection dancing nonchalantly on the surface of a swiftly moving stream. Almost forty feet of rippling water stood between her and the opposite shore, while black tongues of the liquid licked greedily at the bank where she stood. The early spring runoff of melting snow in the nearby mountains had swelled the stream size immensely, making crossing almost impossible. With water overflowing the rocky shoreline that normally bordered the tributary, and trees dipping their branches almost to the undulating fluid, there was no easy escape route on either left or right.

  Another crashing sound behind her brought her head up sharply and reminded her of the danger behind! Her pursuer was gaining ground as she stood indecisively on the bank! She could see that the trees on the other side had recently been harvested, and knew that if she could make the crossing, the way would be easier. In the moonlight the terrain ahead looked open and rolling. With no other option, she leapt into the frigid water.

  Although the stream rose only to her calves this close to the bank, the force of the flow was incredible. She barely kept her footing on the smooth rocks as the water tried to yank her legs from under her. Extending one limb forward, she tried to plant her foot, but the current fought her every movement. The urgency of the situation dictated that she move quickly, but she knew that if she lost her footing, she would be swept downstream, to be pummeled viciously against rocky outcroppings and boulders.

  She had only advanced a couple of yards when her pursuer burst from the forest! Without stopping to think, he sprang for her back! The impact drove her brutally down into the water, knocking the air from her lungs as his weight crushed her against the bottom. Small rocks and coarse sand ground savagely into her face and limbs. She bucked and flailed, trying to dislodge him, but his weight was too great. Her lungs screamed for precious air, and she desperately needed to get her head above water, but it wasn't to be. The more she s
truggled, the more she understood the futility.

  It was over in another minute. She couldn't hold her breath any longer. Water coursed into her throat, filling her lungs. She stopped thrashing about then, her strength deserting her. She knew her cause was lost. She knew she was dying!

  Climbing off her back, her attacker rolled her body over in the shallow water. Although unable to move, her unfocused eyes were open. From just beneath the water she could see her killer's outline against the moon as he dragged her almost lifeless body to a tree that had fallen into the stream. There was no more pain. There was no more sensation at all as he lodged her beneath the half submerged trunk, to ensure that her body wouldn't float downstream. Her vision slowly faded out.

  Arlene awoke with a start and sat bolt upright among rumpled bedclothes while gulping air into her lungs! She was soaked with perspiration and her heart was racing. Realizing where she was, and that she was safe, she calmed down. She let her head droop wearily for a few seconds before flopping back down onto the bed.

  The wet pillow made her sit up again immediately. Angrily she pulled the pillowcase off and tossed the pillow towards a nearby chair before climbing out of bed. After ensuring that the pillow had landed with the wet side up, she carried the pillowcase to her bathroom, rinsed it out, and draped it over the framework of the tub/shower enclosure.

  When she had washed her face and then patted it dry, the five-foot eight-inch redhead pushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ears and stared into the mirror. The whites of her cobalt-blue eyes were bloodshot, and her attractive face was haggard and drawn from sleeplessness. Normally by this point in May, her skin tone would be approaching the golden hue of the sun in those final moments before it drops beneath the horizon, but she still had the lividness associated with the endurance of a long winter in the northern United States. The months of working in the college library and her dorm room, as she prepared term papers and studied for final exams, had taken their toll. So it was with great anticipation that she had been looking forward to the start of summer vacation and long lazy days on the beach.

  But for the past week, Arlene had been having the same nightmare every time she attempted to sleep, day or night. It never varied. Each time, she was racing through unfamiliar woods, frightened half out of her mind, until she reached the stream. As she tried to cross, she was caught and drowned.

  Returning to the darkened bedroom in the southeast corner of the manse's second floor, Arlene lowered her overtired body into a large wing chair by a window. The view of the estate's rear gardens never failed to calm her. She had been enjoying it since her marriage into the Westfield family in 1884. An almost full moon illuminated the rows of flower beds meticulously maintained by the small army of groundskeepers she retained to tend the estate grounds surrounding her seventy-room home in New Bedford, Massachusetts. The cool evening draught from the nearby ocean filled the room, and she could smell the sweet fragrances of fugacious blossoms riding lightly on the salty breeze.

  As she nestled in the soft comfort of the familiar chair, she felt sleep tugging at her, but she refused to surrender to it, fearing that the nightmare would surely replay again. She was confident she had never visited the scene of the murder, so the images must be a precognitive vision. It seemed to add a new dimension of her paranormal abilities. Only twenty-one, the wealthy young woman had just completed her third year at Bryn Mawr, but Arlene Catherine Watson had a knowledge far beyond her apparent years.

  The first light of approaching dawn was visible in the eastern sky when she finally roused herself and walked tiredly to her bathroom to prepare for the new day. An hour later she entered the small family dining room on the first floor and took her customary place at the table.

  Though capable of seating eight comfortably, there were but four chairs around the thick maple table at present. Other chairs, placed discretely around the side walls, were always available to be called into service at a moments notice. Her older sister, Sarah, had married last year and moved out of the house, and neither her thirteen-year-old brother nor her parents had come down yet. Cook, ever sensitive to sounds in the dining room, appeared at the door to the kitchen a few minutes later.

  "You're down early, dear," Cook said. "Another bad night?"

  Now in her mid-fifties, the slightly overweight five-foot three-inch woman with dusty-brown hair projected a matronly appearance. Working alternately in private homes and restaurants, she had been searching for secure and satisfying employment since her husband of five years had deserted his family after the birth of their second child. With her grown daughters now married and moved away from Massachusetts, she had finally found a position where she was happy. This family had taken a liking to her, and she loved all of them as if they were her own. Her schedule was Thursday thru Tuesday, with Wednesdays off, but she had no place else to go, so she prepared all the meals seven days a week. Usually she would spend Wednesday afternoons shopping, but she was always home in time to prepare dinner for the family.

  "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Brittle."

  "Perhaps you should see a doctor. There must be a reason for all the nightmares."

  "Yes, perhaps I will. I'd like a cup of tea and two slices of whole wheat toast, please."

  "Right away Miss," Cook said, allowing the swinging door to close as she stepped back into the enormous kitchen.

  The outside wall of the family dining room, like that of the very large, formal dining room on the other side of the kitchen, faced the rising sun. Now well above the horizon, light from the golden orb filled every corner of the room. Completed in 1880 as a home for the wealthy Westfield family, the mansion had deteriorated considerably by the time Arlene inherited it from her great, great grandmother, Amelia Westfield. But along with the estate, she'd inherited a sizable trust fund that enabled her to have the mansion fully restored to its original glory. When the multiyear project was finished, the first floor of the magnificent mansion looked every bit as wonderful as when it was built in the nineteenth century, and it now it had the advantages of modern wiring, plumbing, and insulation. The kitchen included all the modern conveniences found in a new home, but efforts had been made to have it blend with the rest of the house as much as possible. The exterior stainless steel surfaces of the massive refrigerators and freezers had even been sheathed in real oak, so they'd resemble antique ice-boxes.

  The upper two floors had been completely redesigned. They now included large closets in the bedrooms instead of the former antique chifforobes with limited space. Replica plumbing fixtures had been installed in the bathrooms where the antique plumbing had to be replaced. Otherwise, the furniture in the bedrooms was all original. It had been stripped, repaired where necessary, refinished, and reupholstered to appear as it had when new. Upon entering the house, you could almost swear that you had stepped back in time.

  Arlene's father, originally opposed to spending the small fortune that the restoration of the estate would require, reluctantly came around when it was completed. Arlene had clearly stated her intention to occupy the mansion, and her father finally agreed to sell the family home and move the rest of the family to the estate. But he steadfastly refused to take money from Arlene and continued to work fulltime as an Information Technology Specialist. Of course he did accept the occasional presents that Arlene bestowed, such as the new car every year. The millions that the restoration work gobbled up had made a sizable dent in Arlene's trust fund, but she felt the work was worth every penny, and with judicious spending she would still never have to worry about money for the rest of her life.

  Her dad, hurrying as always in the morning, rushed into the dining room, dropped his briefcase on the table, and immediately headed for the kitchen door, uttering a quick, "Morning, honey," to his daughter. With a job that kept him sitting in an office most of the day, her father had been putting on weight during the past decade and he now tipped the scales at just over 210. It was all the more noticeable because he was only of average height. Arlene may hav
e inherited her red hair and blue eyes from her father, but her svelte figure came from her mother.

  Cook had his travel mug of coffee, light and sweet, already prepared, and he plucked it gingerly from her hands with wide smile and a "Thank you, Mrs. Brittle," then turned and hurried back through the door. "See you tonight, baby," he said as he grabbed at the handle of his briefcase and rushed out again, never hearing her "Bye, Daddy" response. The dining room was much too far from the front drive for Arlene to hear his car as he gunned the engine and flew down the driveway towards the estate's front gate.

  Arlene was still sipping at her tea when her mother came down for breakfast a half-hour later. Having worked as a bookkeeper until Arlene received her inheritance, Mrs. Watson had left her job of eight years with no regrets after they sold their former house and the family no longer had an acute need for the extra income. She would probably enjoy a leisurely breakfast this morning and then prepare for her normal weekday activities; a round of golf at the club, more as a form of exercise than any particular passion for the game, and then an afternoon of Bridge at a friend's house. An inch shorter than Arlene, her blond hair and hazel eyes usually kept strangers from speculating that they were mother and daughter when out together. Passing behind her daughter, she bent and kissed her on the top of her head. "Good morning, dear."

  "Good morning, Momma."

  Moving around the table, her mother took her usual place at the table. "You look terrible. That awful nightmare again?"